


Chez Castiel

by undersail2013



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Asexual Castiel (Supernatural), Comfort Food, Demiromantic Dean Winchester, F/F, F/M, M/M, Nonbinary Dorothy Baum, Openly Bisexual Dean Winchester, Priest Castiel (Supernatural), Reversed Tropes, Roommates, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 18:51:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21141524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undersail2013/pseuds/undersail2013
Summary: Two of Castiel's roommates are getting married and the other is moving cross-country.  He's grumpy enough about having to find all new roommates, and then he hears that Sam invited his brother to crash with them until the wedding.





	Chez Castiel

Jo and Charlie have been roommates since freshman year. They’ve been sleeping together since sophomore year. They’ve been exclusive since junior year. And during senior year, they got engaged.

One of their other roommates is graduating at the same time. Sam is moving to Sacramento with his girlfriend and starting a fabulous internship at a prestigious law firm. He’s thrilled for them.

The fourth roommate, who’s technically the landlord, is not thrilled at all that everyone is moving out. He doesn’t relish finding someone else to split the rent anyway, but he really wishes they weren’t all waiting to move until after the wedding. The brides-to-be have turned the house into a shrine to all things wedding, there are gifts already piled in the corner, and the furniture for the new place - the new place they haven’t even signed for yet - started arriving yesterday. There’s a loveseat in the dining room. The dining room table is leaning on its side, spooning their new dinette set. So, kind of impossible to show the house to prospective tenants. Castiel is not having his best, most supportive-friend week.

The wedding isn’t until June, three weeks after graduation. Castiel’s only consolation is that his roommates are all hip-deep in cramming for finals and therefore too busy to notice his growing surliness.

***

That night, Sam caught Castiel in the kitchen as he prepared his customary Friday night dinner-for-four-unless-someone-has-a-date. He wasn’t much of a cook, but he long ago discovered that by maintaining a presence in the kitchen, he spent less time emptying the fridge of condiment cups and rotting takeout containers. Whenever he cooked for himself, he made extra, and it always got eaten. Sometimes he spent his Saturday making a bunch of freezer meals, especially this time of year when everyone else was running themselves ragged. Cooking for a crowd was a habit he had picked up in the dorm at seminary and honed in soup kitchens. These days, though, he only cooked for his roommates, and it made him happy to see everyone sit down together at the end of a busy week. Today’s special: baked mac and cheese and roasted Brussels sprouts. 

“Hey Castiel, I know it’s short notice, but my brother is coming into town early. He, uh,” Sam dropped his voice, “he lost his job, and he doesn’t have a place to stay, so I told him he could stay with us until the wedding.”

“That’s just...” Castiel sighed, irritably. He composed himself. “That’s fine, Sam. I assume he’ll stay in your room?”

“In my room? Oh. I mean, there’s not much space in there, but...” Castiel felt his jaw tighten. Sam cleared his throat and glanced away. “Ah, well, of course. I’m sure we can make it work.” Sam bounced on his heels. “Welp. That paper isn’t going to finish itself. Thanks; see ya around!”

Castiel sighed again and stirred the pasta. “I don’t want to be an ungracious host,” he thought with a touch of venom, “but I’ll be damned if I’m making freezer meals this weekend.”

***

Sam’s brother arrived sometime in the wee hours. Castiel came to this conclusion through a groggy fog, as he stumbled into the bathroom to find the toilet seat up, a damp towel on the bar, and foreign toiletries scattered all across the vanity. Continuing to the kitchen, where the automated coffeepot burbled a welcome “good morning,” Castiel heard snoring. He peeked into the dining room. Clearly a bomb had gone off in there: an open suitcase spilled clothes onto the floor, a pair of jeans were draped over a leg of the tipped dining room table, another damp towel left to dry (or mildew) on the back of Jo and Charlie’s new sofa. And sprawled over the rest of it, a long, lean man in Batman boxers and an old t-shirt, the latter clinging tightly in all the right places. Castiel huffed, embarrassed and dismayed in equal parts. He plucked the towel from the sofa.

“Hmm? Mornin’.”

Castiel almost yelped. He jumped back, clutching the terrycloth to his chest.

The stranger had the decency to pull a discarded blanket over his lap as he sat up, yawning. “You must be Castiel. I’m Dean, Sam’s brother.” He extended his hand. Castiel stared, and the man awkwardly withdrew it again. He cleared his throat. “Listen, thanks for letting me crash here. I know I’m imposing on you-”

“No,” Castiel croaked. He ran a hand through his hair, attempting to wrest control over his wayward locks. “You’re welcome here. Any friend, er family, of Sam’s is a friend of mine.” He offered his hand, and they shook. “But are you always so untidy?” he blurted.

Dean laughed. Heartily. (Castiel blushed, regretting the rude remark, but Dean seemed disproportionately amused.) “I’m really not. Just got in late. I’ll clean up now.” He threw off the blanket and made as if to stand.

“No, no no, it’s fine. Take your time.” Castiel stepped backwards. “Do you want coffee? I’m- I’m going to get coffee.” 

“Sure, just black.”

Castiel almost ran to the kitchen. This was a mortifying sensation, this feeling of shyness and embarrassment over- what? A nearly naked person? A beautiful nearly naked person. A Michaelangelo in the flesh. “He surprised me, that’s all,” he thought. He pulled a mug from the drip tray and filled it with hot black ichor. He gulped a mouthful, and it burned all the way down. He grabbed another cup. Taking it to the dining room, he thrust the cup towards Dean, who was now standing and reaching for his jeans. “I was ungracious and unneighborly,” Castiel said. 

Dean turned, accepted the mug, inhaled the wafting aroma. “Oh yeah, that’s the stuff,” he sighed. “What is that, French roast?” He set it down so he could step into his pants. “Thanks.”  _ Tug _ . “And sorry about the mess, really.”  _ Tuck _ .  _ Ziiip _ .

Castiel looked away, too late.

Dean caught his eye and winked. “Thought a man of the cloth would be above a little petty voyeurism,” he teased.

“I wasn’t,” Castiel protested.

“Just looking at the menu?”

“I don’t understand that reference.”

“Y’know, the joke? ‘I may be on a diet but I can still look at the menu.’” Dean smiled knowingly, but Castiel was still perplexed. “Ehh, never mind. I’m just gonna-” and gestured down the hall towards the bathroom. 

As the door snicked shut, Castiel shook his head, bewildered by this new acquaintance.

***

Castiel got called in to work, and then he ran a few errands for Father Uriel, the senior priest of the parish. He bumped into Dean in the wine aisle of the grocery store. He looked confused.

“Dean?”

“Castiel!” I was trying to remember: do priests drink?”

“Some do; some don’t.”

Dean shifted his weight. “Okay but. Do you?”

Castiel frowned at Dean. “I’m a person.”

“Huh?”

“I’m more than my profession.”

“Wha-? I didn’t-” He’d caught Dean off-guard. 

“If you want to know something about me, ask me directly.”

Dean stared. He licked his lips. Recovering, he nodded. “Okay.”

Castiel waited.

Dean’s eyes widened and his eyebrows rose. “What?”

“Well?”

“Oh! Um. Do you drink? Wine, I mean.”

Castiel considered him for a long moment. “No.” He removed the bottle of pinot grigio from Dean’s grip and replaced it with another bottle, a red. “I prefer shiraz.”

Dean blew out a breath. “Oh. You’re fucking with me.” He gave Castiel a crooked grin. “You’re a funny sumbitch, Cas.” He shoved the bottle into his cart and wandered away. 

Castiel shrugged and picked up a large vessel of red table wine for Father Uriel.

***

Arriving home, Castiel found the front door unlocked. A sweet, spicy smell greeted him. “Hello?”

A rough voice replied, “In here.”

His kitchen had been taken over. In stocking feet with a dish towel flung over one shoulder, Dean stood before the stove, minding several pots. Castiel suddenly recognized the smell as roasted garlic. “What’s all this?”

“Oh, I hope you don’t mind. I figured I’d earn my keep. It’s not much, but it’s dinner.”

“Spaghetti and meatballs?”

“Yeah, it’s one of Sam’s favorites. He said everyone else would eat it, too.” 

Castiel leaned over the stovetop; Dean shifted his torso as he moved into his personal space but didn’t step away. “Did you make that sauce from scratch?”

“Yup. Well, from canned tomatoes. The meatballs are homemade, though.” Dean pushed Castiel aside so he could open the oven a crack. “Pork, turkey, and beef. After they bake, I’m gonna simmer them in the sauce until it’s dinnertime.”

“May I?” Castiel asked, pointing at the bubbling cauldron of tomatoes.

Dean ladled him a small taste. He blew on it before presenting the spoon to Castiel, one hand cupped underneath to catch any drips. “Careful, it’s hot,” he said.

Castiel slurped cautiously. He gasped.

“Too hot?”

“No. No, it’s divine.” Castiel grinned. “I’m not good with herbs. Basil?”

“Rosemary, mostly.” He nodded towards the kitchen window, where stood a new rosemary plant. “And a good dash of Italian seasoning, just to be safe.”

“That’s delicious. Sam mentioned that you used to cook for him, but I didn’t realize you were such an artist.”

“Psh,” he waved a hand. “Just the basics. I’m not a chef or anything.”

Castiel surveyed the many, many dishes in the sink. “This is more than just the basics. Thank you,” he continued earnestly, warmly. “This is very kind.”

Dean ducked his head. “Psh,” he mumbled again. “’Sthe least I could do.” He went back to stirring the sauce, and his face looked a little pink.

Castiel returned to the hallway to put down his bag. He peeked in the dining room. Uncluttered. Sofa cushions straightened. Afghan neatly folded over the back of the couch. He went to the bathroom and discovered it nearly sparkling. Castiel knew that it was Jo’s turn to tidy the shared bathroom, and she had never left it looking this fresh and clean. Dean did this? Must have. When he emerged, he saw that Sam’s door was open. Dean was spreading a sturdy old flannel-lined sleeping bag on the floor. Castiel leaned into the doorway. “You really don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

“I don’t mind. I’ve slept on worse. Sam said-”

“I’ve been particularly ungenerous this week- I have no excuse. My apologies. If Jo and Charlie don’t object to you sleeping on their couch, then neither will I. Please. Make yourself at home.”

Dean grinned. “I appreciate it, man.” Then he wrinkled his nose. “You don’t happen to have a clothesline out back, do ya? This sleeping bag has been in my trunk for months and it could use an airing out.”

Castiel directed him to a clothes rack. Dean carried it to the back porch. Castiel followed him unconsciously, loitering in his wake. He watched him as he worked, setting up the drying rack. Unzipping the bag all the way around. For some reason, the sound caused a ripple to race across Castiel’s scalp.

“You okay?” Dean was watching him, too.

Castiel shook his head. “I’m fine. Sorry, you need a hand with that.” He reached for the far end and helped Dean drape the heavy fabric over the tippy little frame.

Dean slapped Castiel on the back in thanks. “Better go check on dinner.”

He tagged along. It was Sam’s day to wash dishes, but Castiel didn’t mind pitching in. Dean turned on some music, something Castiel vaguely recognized.  _ Led Zeppelin _ , he guessed.  _ Yes, The Stairway to Heaven _ . 

Neither man spoke while Castiel worked, though Dean grabbed a clean dish towel from the drawer and set to drying.

“This is cozy,” Dean joked, hip-checking Castiel.

Castiel just smiled, eyes still on the soapy mixing bowl in his hands.

***

After his initial faux pas, Dean proved a model house guest. He insisted on being given a spot on the chore wheel, only to ignore it entirely in favor of doing whatever needed doing. He had a strong work ethic and clearly hated sitting still. He cleaned, he cooked, he played handyman, fixing things that had been broken for years. The screen on the back window. The squeaky hinges in the pantry. Even the ceiling fan in the living room that had literally never worked, having been installed incorrectly back when Castiel was a kid, when his father had still owned the place. Jo asked Dean to cover her chores, appealing to him as his baby sister (“Stepsister,” he’d reply with a grin, and then he’d tousle her hair until she squealed and ran off to smooth it back down). Charlie set him to work assembling wedding favors, little flowerpots filled with exactly eleven Jordan almonds each, then wrapped in tulle and tied with purple ribbon. Sam tried to make everyone leave Dean alone, but a decade working in hectic kitchens had trained Dean to thrive on busywork. 

After a long day of taking care of everyone and everything, he would offer to make his hosts tea or coffee or hot chocolate. Sam usually let him make a pot of coffee, and he’d take it back to his room for another hour or two of studying before bedtime, or to text with his girlfriend back east. Jo and Charlie rarely stuck around for dinner. They always had something planned: study groups on Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday; D&D on Wednesday; a standing movie date on Saturday nights. When they did stay in, they generally turned in early. Castiel, though, was always happy to accept a cup of tea during Jeopardy. Or a beer, if that’s what Dean was drinking. 

The two of them spent many an evening in the living room, ostensibly watching garbage sitcoms until it was time to retire. Castiel in the wingback chair. Dean on the sofa. Their drinks side by side on the end table between them. Castiel would mention something that needed fixing before he could advertise for new tenants; Dean would remind him that he’d fixed it last week, or that it was on the list. Once, Dean said, “You should turn this place into a B&B,” and they were up past midnight, discussing the possibilities. 

Castiel enjoyed listening to Dean talk. He got the feeling that Dean didn’t open up often. He wondered if he would benefit from confession - or therapy - but he didn’t mention it. Selfishly, he would miss being Dean’s sounding board.

“...That was the last straw. I told that dick Zachariah where he could shove it and I walked out.”

“You quit?” Castiel tipped his head, quizzically. “Sam said you were laid off.”

“I told Sam I was laid off,” Dean replied, pointing the lip of the beer bottle at Castiel. “I also said that was a month ago. Between you and me, I left Lawrence six months ago. I sold my trailer, packed up whatever I could into the Impala, and hit the road. I decided to tool around for a while, cruise the old Route 66. Even after selling off everything, I didn’t have a ton of cash, but I figured maybe I could take odd jobs, like they did in the old days. Really live my life before I hit 30 and have to start thinking about settling down, getting married, having some rugrats.”

“Is that what you want? To settle down and have some ‘rugrats?’” he asked. He mimed the airquotes.

“Yeah,” Dean replied reflexively. “I mean. I guess. It’s what we’re supposed to do, right?”

Castiel shrugged. “Not me.”

“Hmm.” Dean took a long pull of his beer. He stared at the tv, focused on something besides the rotisserie chicken being advertised on the screen. Castiel examined his profile, but Dean didn’t notice. Sometimes Dean would startle when he caught Castiel looking at him. But this time, he didn’t flinch and he said nothing more until the evening news came on. 

“Dean?”

“Hmm?” Finally, movement. His eyes flickered towards the voice, and he seemed surprised to see Castiel. “What’s up, Cas?”

“Are you okay?”

He hummed again. “Me? Yeah. Peachy.” He frowned. “Something wrong?”

Castiel shook his head. “No. I- I was thinking I should go to bed.”

Dean squinted at the small numbers on the DVD player. “Shit, yeah, it’s late.” He drained his beer. He started to grab Castiel’s bottle as well, but his hand paused mid-air. He patted Castiel’s hand instead. “Thanks, buddy.”

“For what?”

But he had already swept up the bottles and was heading for the kitchen. Castiel waited for him to return, but he never did. When Castiel ventured into the kitchen to see what was taking him so long, it was empty. Instead, he found Dean was curled up on the loveseat. Asleep or pretending to be. Castiel whispered, “Good night,” and padded off to his own bed. 

One bottle of beer was usually enough to guarantee that Castiel fell fast asleep, but that night, worry for his friend took the place of sleep. 

***

On the last day of exams, Jo, Charlie, and Sam went out drinking with some other graduating seniors. Charlie invited Dean, Sam invited Castiel, but neither joined the younger folks. The next day was quiet, punctuated by the occasional “Ugh, I’m getting too old for this shit” from Jo, and Charlie wishing for pizza, “but not, like, good pizza. Shitty Totinos pizza. Deeean, go buy me a bunch of pizza. I’ll pay you.”

Dean laughed off their whininess. He plied them with lots of water and then made them his famous hangover cure for dinner: Winchester Surprise. “Beef, pork, American Cheese, and Fritos for garnish.”

“It looks like a heart attack on a plate,” remarked Castiel, frowning at the mess of a casserole. “What’s the surprise?” 

“That Mom cooked,” he joked, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “After she- afterwards, the surprise was that I had enough food in the fridge to throw together dinner.”

Castiel laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder. He knew Dean and Sam had lost their mother early, and that their father had been unreliable at best, and he waited to see if Dean would elaborate. He didn’t, and Castiel drifted away to get some work done.

The fatty casserole did the trick. Jo and Charlie felt well enough to hang around in the living room after dinner. Everyone had a beer or two and reminisced. Jo and Charlie piled on Dean on the couch. Sam sat on the floor on the other side of the coffee table, hugging his knees. Castiel, perched in his wingback chair, was clearly the outsider, yet he hadn’t felt this included in a long time. 

He hadn’t had much opportunity to see Dean interacting with his stepsister and stepsister-in-law-to-be. He loved them, and they loved him. Dean dared Sam to let Jo braid his hair. She laughed and eagerly accepted the challenge. She sat up and made room for Sam to crouch on the floor in front of her, and she whipped his shoulder-length hair into a sleek French braid. Dean took pictures with his cheap phone; Charlie took better photos with her superior phone and sent them to his girlfriend Eileen. Talk turned to Eileen and Sam’s move to California, and Jo and Charlie’s new place, which should be ready for occupancy by the end of next week.

“I’ll start packing on Monday,” Jo announced. “I can’t even think about it right now.”

“We should at least get some boxes, though,” added Charlie. She tapped Sam. “Is Eileen coming early to help you pack?”

“Not really. She’ll be here on Thursday before the wedding, with a U-Haul!”

Castiel’s phone dinged. Incoming message from Dean. A photo of Sam’s braid. Another ding, and a photo of the group, laughing, with Castiel right in the middle of the fun. He looked over at Dean, stuffed in a corner of the couch. Dean wasn’t looking at him, though he had a shy smile on his face. He was typing.

Ding. “We should have a party. Friday night dinner. Surf and turf?”

Castiel typed, “Yes. I have money- can we shop Fri a.m.?”

Ding. “It’s a date.”

Castiel swung his eyes towards Dean, but he was tucking his phone in his pocket, seemingly absorbed in his siblings’ conversation. 

***

Dean and Castiel surprised the others with tender filet mignon, lobster tails drenched in butter, and rich, creamy mashed potatoes with just a drizzle of truffle oil. Granted, the steaks were on the small side, even for filet, and the lobster came out of a box (previously frozen), but everything was cooked to perfection. Castiel was particularly proud of the mashed potatoes, even if his hands still ached from peeling the small, lumpy Yukons. He had argued for Russets, cheap and uniform, but Dean had insisted on the waxy-fleshed potatoes. “If you wanna bake ’em, by all means, get those,” gesturing at the $4 bag in Castiel’s hand, “but if you want mashed taters, you want these,” and he plopped two bags of smooth-skinned potatoes into the cart, closing the discussion. Beyond that intervention, however, Dean had given Castiel free rein to cook and flavor them as he saw fit, and even moaned around a mouthful, “Your potatoes are awesome, Cas.” The perfect compliment.

Charlie donated a bottle of mid-priced bubbly to the feast, a gift from her honors advisor. “If I’d known, I’d’ve stuck it in the fridge. But this will have to do,” and she distributed two frozen strawberries in each of their wine glasses before pouring the tepid wine. “Cheers, guys!”

“Cheers!”

Castiel was glad that Dean had agreed to set up the dining room table for this evening’s meal. Wrestling the table and chairs out of storage hadn’t been easy, and neither of them was looking forward to putting them back. Still, the dinette and the couch wouldn’t stay in the house much longer, and it was nice to sit comfortably all together around a single table, rather than in the living room, squatting at the coffee table or awkwardly balancing plates on laps. 

For dessert, Dean presented an impeccably decorated chocolate cake, with towering swirls of chocolate whipped cream, each topped with a plump red raspberry, and ganache dripping artfully down the sides. Sam snorted. “Congerts GARD?” he read. 

Dean laughed. “Right? I had to get it!”

Castiel looked around the table to gauge the response, and was pleased that everyone seemed to appreciate the humor. “Because it’s so beautifully decorated, but they botched the writing on top.”

Charlie pulled out her phone and snapped a few pics. “Amazing. I hope they did that on purpose, because that is just stunningly bad.”

“You gotta send it to Cake Wrecks, babe,” Jo prompted.

“YES!”

Jo poured the last of the champagne into her glass. “Okay, two truths and a lie. I’ll go first. I love my wife, I am so glad to be out of school, I never want to leave this house.” 

Sam asked, “You’re not glad to be out of school?”

“Nah, fuck that place,” she grinned.

“You don’t love your wife, because she’s not your wife yet.”

“Ding ding ding! Castiel got it right! Your turn.”

He hummed. “Okay. Someday I want to settle down, get married, and have ‘rugrats.’” He glanced at Dean; he just cocked his head thoughtfully.

“Getting married?” Charlie guessed.

“Rugrats,” Jo yelled.

“Hold on, hold on,” Dean interrupted, “only one lie.”

“I only said one lie. Jo got it right.”

Dean frowned. “And get married. Right?”

“I  _ would  _ like to get married someday.”

“But you can’t?” The table fell silent. “Catholic priests can’t marry, right?”

Sam cleared his throat. “Uh, Dean, Castiel isn’t Catholic.”

Dean goggled. “Say what now? Cas?”

Castiel looked levelly at Dean. “I’m not Catholic. I’m Episcopalian. I thought you knew that. We drove past my church today.”

“So.” He seemed to be doing intense calculations. “You’re not Catholic.”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid not, my friend.”

“Oh. Cool.” 

“Are. Are we good now?” Jo asked. “Or do we need to say Castiel isn’t Catholic a few more times?”

“I, for one, am glad that Castiel is not Catholic,” Charlie chimed in, “because Catholic priests, in addition to not being able to marry,” nudging Dean, “can’t solemnize gay weddings, and we’re getting gay-married by Castiel, a non-Catholic priest, in three weeks and a day!”

“Speak for yourself, babe,” Jo laughed. “I’m not getting gay-married; I’m getting bi-married!”

“Catholic priests can’t solemnize those either,” Castiel deadpanned. Everyone but Dean laughed.

“Haha, Dean’s an idiot. Whatever.” He flipped them off, but he was only pretending to be hurt. “Jo already took her turn, so I’m gonna go now. My name is Dean Winchester, I’m an Aquarius, and I like frisky women.”

“Obviously the name is the lie,” Charlie quipped. “Just kidding, you like frisky  _ anyone _ !”

“Bi-five,” Jo called, raising a hand for her brother to slap. 

Dean winked, and Castiel suddenly wasn’t sure if he was winking at him.

***

At last, the week of the wedding arrived, along with more house guests. Jo’s mom Ellen and her husband, Bobby (who also happened to be Sam and Dean’s godfather and the only remaining parental figure in their lives) showed up on Monday. They took the sleeper sofa in the living room. Charlie’s Best Mate, Dorothy, came into town on Tuesday. They opted for the trundle bed in Jo and Charlie’s room. Eileen pulled up in a huge moving van, as expected, on Thursday afternoon. She leapt out of the cab and climbed Sam like a tree, greeting him with a passionate kiss that left Jo and Dean pretending to retch in the driveway, as only siblings can. Sam helped her in with her belongings and the two of them cozied up together until dinner, which made Dean only too happy that he had staked a claim outside of their lovenest. Fortunately, though Jo and Charlie were slowly moving things to their new place, they had agreed to leave the couch for last.

The last guest to arrive, however, prompted Dean to beat a hasty retreat from the sofa in the dining room. 

“Knock-knock, Jo! Dr Badass is IN!”

“ASH!” Jo shrieked, running from one end of the house to the other and flinging herself into the arms of the skinny guy with the blond mullet. She smacked him on the arm. “’Bout fucking time, you asshole!”

“What? I’m like 20 hours early!”

Castiel did not miss the sour look on Dean’s face as he slunk out to the garage without a backwards glance. He waited to be introduced to Jo’s Man of Honor before following after Dean. He found him at the workbench, fiddling with some kind of metallic car part. “Dean?”

He dropped his chin to his chest with a sigh. “I shouldn’t have come. I knew he’d be here, I knew she’d invite him.”

“He’s her Man of Honor,” Castiel confirmed, softly.

Dean laughed, a bitter sound. “Of course he is.”

“I don’t suppose you want to talk about it?” Dean didn’t respond. “Is there anything I can do?” He shook his head no. Castiel hesitated. “Should-? I could ask him to leave?”

Dean roused at that. “No,” he muttered, eyes still on the lump of metal in his hands. More firmly, “No, it’s Jo’s special day, right?”

Castiel laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder. They stood like that in silence for some time. But as Castiel turned to leave, Dean reached for him, snagging his forearm. “Wait. Would you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Would you mind moving my stuff into Sam’s room?”

“Of course.”

The hubbub in the foyer had only increased, as Charlie and Sam ventured into the fray. Ash was being introduced to Eileen, who was exclaiming over his fluent ASL and ribbing Sam for his more rudimentary skills. 

Castiel had no difficulty in spiriting away Dean’s belongings. He couldn’t imagine why Dean had reacted so strangely to his stepsister’s friend. He speculated that the two had a history. But was Dean’s behavior indicative of injury or remorse? He dug out Dean’s sleeping bag and a couple of pillows from the linen closet and set up as comfortable a bed as he could contrive from a few square feet of bare floor. Dean would come around. Or not. All Castiel could do was offer him his friendship.

As Castiel left Sam’s - and now Dean’s - room, Jo caught his eye. She cocked her head; Castiel nodded. Without skipping a beat, she showed Ash to the sofa in the living room and invited him to make himself at home.

***

Dean stayed in the garage tinkering with his car’s engine until after dinner. Castiel made him a plate and advised him that everyone had moved to the living room to play Pictionary. At the moment, though, they were more interested in lamenting that they’d never planned a bachelorette party. 

Also, Dean’s name hadn’t come up at all. 

Castiel returned to the kitchen to wash up. Dean appeared with his empty plate just as he finished squeezing out the sponge and wiping down the counter. Castiel told him to just leave it in the sink. “Jo can do it tomorrow. Or whoever she cons into doing her chores.” 

He nodded but washed the dish himself anyway. “If you’re done with the water, I’m gonna take a long hot shower and then I’m gonna turn in. G’night, Cas.” 

“Good night, Dean.” 

He did not rejoin the group in the living room. He felt uneasy. Ash’s presence had caused a shift in the dynamics of the household. Castiel was loath to take sides, as he still knew nothing aside from Dean’s reticence. 

Charlie wandered into the kitchen for tequila and shot glasses. “We’re about to make some really bad decisions,” she warbled. “Wanna join us?”

He tried to smile. “No, thank you. I was actually thinking I might retire. But you go ahead.”

“Okay. ’Night, Castiel. JO, YOU WERE RIGHT- THERE’S A WHOLE HANDLE OF RUM.”

“TOLDJA! BRING IT, TOO.” 

“BACHELORETTE PARTY, BITCHES!”

****

Castiel couldn’t tell if the party had died down or if he was dreaming. The house seemed quiet, but someone had entered his room and they were dragging something behind them.

“Hello?”

Dean chucked his pillows on the floor and spread out his sleeping bag. “Don’t mind me,” he whispered. “Just borrowing a patch of floor where people aren’t having sex.” 

“Gross.” 

“What, people having sex?” 

“Well, kind of.” 

The words hung unchallenged while Dean made himself comfortable. At length, he asked, “So that’s a person thing, not a priest thing?”

Castiel shrugged. “A person thing. Celibacy not required; it just comes naturally to me.”

“We are so different, dude.”

Castiel grappled for a metaphor. “So I’m assuming you would rather play the game than be a spectator?”

Dean chuckled. “You could say that. But like, no one wants to hear their brother doing it.” He clicked his tongue. “Sam and Eileen must’ve thought I was asleep. I never thought a Deaf person could be so loud.”

“From what I understand, that’s a common misconception.” They fell silent, but their silence amplified the noises from elsewhere in the house. Castiel cleared his throat in embarrassment. 

There was a rustling as Dean lifted himself onto his elbow. “Hey Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“So, Ash.” He kept his voice low.

“What about him?”

“Me and him—It's a pretty messed-up situation.” Castiel didn’t say anything. “We, uh. I’m just gonna say it: we used to get drunk together and fool around. He and Jo know each other because he and I were friends, but after… God, I feel like a 12 year old girl at a slumber party, except I’m telling you about my first time getting fucked.” He realized what he said. “Shit! Sorry, I didn’t mean to just blurt it out like that.” He exhaled, trying to reset. “Anyway. I asked him to, and he did. But then, like, he couldn’t look at me. And he made this whole story about how he’d done anal with some GIRL, and every time he told the story it just got more and more humiliating. He would do this impression of ‘her,’ but it was really just me.”

Castiel sucked in a breath. He passed him a box of tissues.

“Psh. I’m fine,” he lied. He sniffled once before continuing. “He acts like he’s so damn straight. And, AND, he’s obsessed with pegging. Pretty sure Jo even-” He stopped. “Oh god, I really am a twelve year old girl.” He flung himself backwards onto the pillow, but missed and smacked his head audibly on the ground. “OW. I deserved that.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He grunted and rolled to a seated position. He clutched his head. “Ow.”

“Come up here.”

“Dude. No. Ow.”

Castiel snapped on the bedside lamp. “At least come here and let me see where you hit it.” 

Dean groaned but he obeyed. His knees popped as he pulled himself upright. He perched on the bed, his back to Castiel. He let Castiel run his hands over his head, checking for a lump. 

“I don’t feel anything, and you’re not bleeding. But there’s no reason for you to go back to the floor when there’s plenty of room here.” He turned off the light and laid down again. 

With the light out, Dean relented. Maybe he felt less exposed. He shuffled around and put his head on the pillow, facing Castiel. “Anyway, it hurt. We couldn’t be friends, we couldn’t be … whatever we were when we were messing around.”

“And you couldn’t tell anyone why.”

Dean breathed out a long breath. “Yeah,” he whispered. “That was the worst part.”

Castiel nodded. “I’ve heard that friend break-ups are harder than romantic break-ups.”

“Yeah.” The sound of crickets outside. Inside, the house was completely quiet. “Did you ever have a girlfriend? Or boyfriend,” he amended.

“No. Neither.”

“Smart man,” Dean laughed.

“Maybe. But I wasn’t interested.”

Dean grunted, a noncommittal reply.

“Sometimes I wish I had. Charlie and Jo, Sam and Eileen, they have  _ someone _ . I have friends, I have people to care for, but I’ll never have that  _ one person _ like they’ve found.”

“Call me crazy,” he mumbled, his voice even quieter than before, “but I think, maybe, you do.”

“What do you-” 

Dean pressed his palm against Castiel’s, and their fingers interlaced. “I dunno, Cas. You feel different somehow. Like you could be my best friend and boyfriend and all those things, all at the same time. You’re like the wife I always wanted.” 

Castiel frowned and started to pull his hand away. “Now I know you’re joking.”

“I’m not saying it right.” He huffed, then clasped Castiel’s hand tighter. “It’s like, those moments when we’re in the kitchen together and it feels like we’re an old married couple, but in a good way. Y’know?”

A small smile played on Castiel’s lips. “Yes. I do know. We do share a more profound bond.” As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Dean’s face became more visible. “They’re taking the couch to the condo tomorrow morning.” 

“I know.”

“I was going to offer you their room, but. You can sleep here. If you want.” 

“Okay, Cas.”

“I like that, by the way. ‘Cas.’” He could see Dean’s smile, teeth showing, eyes crinkled at the corners. He wished they could stay like this forever, soft and affectionate, whispering in the dark. It was an intimacy he hadn’t imagined. But a thought nagged at him, and he scowled. “But what happens next week?”

Dean’s smile broke. “Whaddya mean?”

“I mean, if your brother is gone, and Jo and Charlie are gone. Will you stay?” 

Dean nodded, his eyes earnest. 

They didn’t kiss. They didn’t intertwine their bodies, like people do in stories. They lay side by side, facing one another, holding hands. They said good night, but they didn’t sleep right away. Dean tangled his feet with Castiel’s; Castiel’s hand found Dean’s shoulder. A murmured question. A muffled response. Neither remembered the other falling asleep. At one point, Castiel thought he heard Dean mumble something that sounded like, “I’ll stay,” but maybe he dreamt it.

Castiel awoke to soft morning light, dawn creeping in on cat feet. Or was that a fog? Either way, it seemed a perfectly ordinary day. It didn’t feel like a day made for life-altering promises, and yet it was for Dean and Castiel, and would be for Jo and Charlie. 

He watched the light shift from a deep blue to palest yellow. He watched Dean sleep, his face half-buried in the pillow, hair splayed, mouth just agape, snoring softly. He watched him sleep until he couldn’t resist the urge to card his fingers gently through Dean’s hair. When he moved his hand from his shoulder, he saw that he had left a faint imprint on Dean’s sleep-warmed skin. He cupped his cheek; Dean gave a sleepy grin as he leaned into the touch. For a terrifying second, Castiel worried that Dean would change his mind about him, that he’d want to take back all the nice things they’d said last night, that Dean would, indeed, leave with his brother and sisters, leave Castiel alone in this big empty house.

“’Mornin, beautiful,” he purred. 

Castiel felt both relief and a pang in his stomach. “Good morning, Dean.” He had never felt so confused and elated at once. “You’re the beautiful one.”

Dean chuckled. “You want some coffee?”

“I doubt it’s ready yet.”

“I’ll go start it then.” He sat up, scrubbed his hair and his face to get the blood flowing. And as if by instinct, or an afterthought, he turned to drop a feather-light kiss on Castiel’s forehead. He grinned and disappeared down the hallway. 

Castiel felt dazed. Much as Dean had done, he sat up and raked his hands through his hair, which only made his bedhead worse. His cheeks felt flushed; he pressed his hands against them, hoping he was just emotional and not getting sick. His hands cooled his face, and he decided he was probably just blushing. He followed Dean into the kitchen.

He could hear Dean talking to someone. Ah, Charlie.

“There’s a word for that, you know,” she was saying.

“A word for what?” Castiel asked as he stumbled blearily into the conversation.

“Oh! Oh, hey Castiel,” she replied, feigning a casual tone. “You know that feeling when you love a friend - like, more than a friend - and you’re not boyfriends, er, or girlfriends, boyfriend-and-girlfriend, and maybe you never will be, but you just want to settle down with that person and be their, like, partner-slash-best friend forever, exclusively?”

Castiel darted his eyes towards Dean. He hoped Charlie hadn’t noticed, but he was pretty sure Dean did. “Oh? What’s the word?”

“Queer-platonic.”

“Queer-platonic?” Dean said the word, almost to himself, rolling it around.

“Hmm. That’s very interesting, Charlie,” Castiel replied, attempting to match her disinterested nonchalance. “Is the coffee ready?”

Dean handed him a steaming mug. “Morning, Cas.”

He raised his eyes to Dean’s. “Good morning, Dean.” 

Charlie looked between them for a moment, did the math, and busied herself with her own cup of coffee. And one for Jo. And then started a second pot. At length, she said, “Well I’m gonna go. Back to my room. Getting married today!”

That roused them. Castiel shook his head clear. “Of course. Congratulations, Charlie! You’re up very early.”

“Yeah, congerts,” Dean joked.

“Congerts, BRID!” Charlie riffed. “Yeah, fell right asleep but then the alcohol wore off and it was just nonstop anxiety. Yay.”

Dean gripped her shoulders in a half-backrub sort of motion. “Don’t worry, kid, you’re gonna do great. It’s your special day!”

“Thanks, Dean. But I’m more concerned that Jo’s day be perfect. I mean. I did this, all of this, for her.”

“I get it. Weddings, am I right?”

“It’s going to be beautiful,” Castiel confirmed, nodding. “We’re going to make sure of it.”

“Thanks. I love youse guys!” She gave them each a big hug, squeezing them both as hard as she could.

“I know,” Dean replied. He kissed her hair. “Get out of here. You still have, ehh, 93 minutes before you have to be awake.” Turning to Castiel, he said, “I’m going to pop the cinnamon rolls in the oven while it’s preheating and set the timer for a little longer. Are you going back to your room?”

“Our room,” he murmured, and he felt that same little jolt.

Dean’s eyes brightened. “Yeah. I’ll be right there, ’kay?” He reached out and took Castiel’s hand. Not shaking, not holding. A short gentle squeeze. He smirked and answered his own question, a little self-consciously. “Okay.”

***

If Jo and Charlie felt the day flew by, as they remarked at least once an hour, it felt interminable to Castiel. His officiant duties didn’t worry him, but there were so many other things to do. As a host, helping people find fresh towels, and an iron, and some bobby pins. (“No, hon, those are safety pins!”) As a pair of strong arms, helping Dean and Sam wrangle the brides’ loveseat and dinette set into Sam and Eileen’s U-Haul for the trip to the new condo, and then up a narrow flight of stairs at the other end. As a landlord, checking that the a/c was working. Which it was, but with so many people running around and taking showers and leaving the front door open to take one more box to the U-Haul, the air conditioning unit was struggling to keep the house cool. As a peacemaker, helping Jo manage her mother. As a boyfriend or partner, or whatever- he and Dean never did get a chance to follow up on that queer-platonic business before breakfast- acting as a buffer between Dean and his ex-friend Ash.

Eventually, everyone took their positions in the little coffeehouse where Jo and Charlie had first met. Castiel in all black, broken only by his collar, stood beside the little stage. One bride to his right in a long white backless gown, her blond hair coiffed and veiled, with a tasteful tiara. The other bride to his left in a bell-sleeved vermillion dress and cloak, her long hair loose and topped with an ornate circlet. Man of Honor and Best Mate attending. Every other guest sat in the audience, in the tables and chairs and comfy couches of the coffeehouse, from Jo’s mother and stepfather, to the barista who had trained Charlie, to the weird regular who had cried actual tears of happiness for Charlie when he heard that Jo had said Yes. Dean sat towards Charlie’s side of the room, partially obscured from the wedding party, but Castiel had a lovely view of him. 

Jo said, “I do.”

Charlie said, “I do.”

Castiel said, “You are wed.”

Guests drank coffee and tea and nibbled pastries while the brides posed for photographs. Every so often, the photographer’s assistant would poke their head in and request specific people for photos. One of the first groups was, “Casteel, Sam, Ellen, Dean, Bobby, Eileen.” Sam and Eileen bounced out first with Bobby and Ellen hot on their heels. Castiel glanced at Dean. He looked apprehensive. Wordlessly, Castiel took his hand and led him out the door. Dean squeezed it once. He interpreted that as a Thanks; he replied with a squeeze of his own. As before, Dean maneuvered himself towards Charlie, and the photos were taken with minimal awkwardness. Castiel doubted that anyone else noticed Dean’s discomfort, especially with Dean doing his best to conceal it. Ash, for his part, seemed wholly unaffected by Dean’s presence or absence, and Jo was oblivious.

Back inside, the revolving door of photography subjects continued spinning, until every member of the party was hustled outside for a group shot. Dean had been chatting with some of Jo’s cousins when the call came to gather, and the assistant placed him directly beside Ash. He tried to blend backwards, but Ash caught his arm. “Jo wants you here.” 

Castiel had been positioned at the center of the frame and missed the exchange. Dean grabbed him after the group was excused. 

“Cas. Wait. Uh. Did you see that?”

“See what?”

He cleared his throat. “They put me next to Ash, and he actually talked to me. He- he apologized, I guess. Said we should get a drink. Now that he’s queer and all, he said.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“So. Are you considering it?”

“What? God no. I’m just really shaken up. I spent so much time, angry at him, building up this hatred, and he’s just like-  _ whoosh _ ?” He waved a hand. “He’s over his gay panic and self-loathing and now, what, I’m just supposed to crawl back into bed with him? No! Fuck that!”

“Fuck that,” Castiel echoed, absent-mindedly. He looked around for a chair. He pulled Dean over to a bench. “Sit. Breathe. I’ll wait here with you until you’re ready to go inside.”

Dean let himself be moved. He dropped down with a thud; Castiel winced for him, but if it hurt, Dean didn’t seem to notice. He huffed, he puffed; he wanted to verbalize all of his feelings, he didn’t want to say anything. After a few minutes of agitation, he sighed, slumping forward as he emptied his lungs. He took a deep breath, and his breath stuttered once. Castiel thought Dean might cry and did a quick mental inventory of his pockets. Had he remembered tissues? Dean looked up into Castiel’s face. His eyes were moist, but Castiel saw one single tear streak down his cheek. 

“How are you, Dean?”

“Pretty shitty, Cas, pretty shitty.” He shifted down and backwards, making himself small enough to lean his head against Castiel’s bicep. Castiel put his arm around him and pressed a kiss into his hair. Dean hummed. “This is nice, though.” He shifted again, this time, putting his back against the seat and laying his head in Castiel’s lap. He looked up at him. “I don’t want him. I never did.”

“I believe you.” Castiel ran his fingers through Dean’s hair, and he rolled his eyes shut and smiled. Castiel half-expected him to start purring. 

“I don’t know about this queer-platonic thing, though.”

“No?” Castiel kept his face and voice neutral. 

“No. Not for me, anyway. I think I would be happy to call you my boyfriend. Or partner, spouse, I dunno. Whatever, I’m easy.”

Castiel sighed. “I’m not. Easy, I mean.”

“You mean because you don’t like sex? I’m not worried. Sex just fucks everything up. No pun intended.”

“But. You do. A lot, from what I gather.”

“Sure, but it’s not everything. This, though. I’ve never had this. I’d give up anything to keep this.”

Castiel wasn’t entirely sure what Dean meant by “this,” but he understood. “Yes,” he whispered. “Me too.” He petted Dean’s hair and contemplated sharing a future with this beautiful soul. “It might be a little early to discuss marriage, though,” he added, smiling.

“Why not? We’re at a wedding; it’s what people do.” He cocked his ear towards the coffeehouse. “First dance is starting.” He looked up. “Two truths and a lie. Starting right now, we’re settled down, you and me. Maybe we’ll run a B&B.” He grinned; Castiel returned the smile. “And we will absolutely not, under any circumstances, go inside so I can ask you to dance with me.”

  
  



End file.
